Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

the sailboat bobbed on the rising swells. The ocean heaved, like the chest of a giant beast. The wind died. Brad watched me from the deck below.

I waited.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Day nine.

I leaned my face against the mast, hovering between consciousness and sleep. I thought of Emma and my daydreams took on a life of their own. My head bobbed, and I forced myself awake. The sky turned steel blue signaling the approach of sunrise. I shook my head. The sail had filled, and the yacht pitched as it cut through the waves. I estimated we heeled fifteen degrees to starboard, and if the winds shifted any more, I would need to ease the boom out or turn the boat away from the wind. An unmanned sailboat was doomed.

The sun cracked the horizon and turned the water to golden honey. I raised my hands over my head and stretched my aching body. The sky had cleared to the east, so the storm had missed us. I twisted my torso to crack my back and froze. The other sailboat looked closer. Was the boat heading toward us? I rubbed my eyes and checked again. I detected the thin dark line of the hull and the red and green lights on the mast. It was not my imagination. The sailboat had turned toward us and closed the distance.

The crew must have seen my distress flare. The sailboat looked to be approximately ten miles away, and the wind had strengthened, blowing out of the east and propelling us forward at a minimum of five or six knots. We could go faster if we trimmed the sails and jibbed away from the wind, but since we failed to maximize our sails, the other boat should cruise faster than us. If their crew managed to milk a few more knots out of the wind, they could close the gap, assuming they took the right angle to intercept. However, the perfect angle was unlikely to be an ideal angle to the wind, which would slow them. I also did not know what kind of boat they had, or if they faced stronger currents or rougher seas, or how proficient they were at sailing. Many variables would determine their speed, but I estimated they would reach us during the night.

My head spun, my stomach ached from hunger, and pain radiated through my temples. Either dehydration caused my symptoms, or I was infected with rabies. I shook the notion away. Some things were out of my control.

Would I be conscious when help arrived? I needed to warn the other crew about the rabid nightmare lurking below. If I could slow our yacht, they would overtake us sooner. I could deploy the sea anchor, but I had stowed it after the storm. The most obvious solution was to furl the sails or turn into the wind, but I needed to be in the helm to do either of those maneuvers.

I looked over the bosun’s chair at Brad sitting on the deck below. He raised his head and met my stare. I would never make it to the helm alive.

“Hey Brad, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I want a fucking divorce.”

He cocked his head and bared his teeth.

I watched the other boat. The sea was a dangerous place and thousands of years of sailing had created a culture where mariners helped others in distress, and with or without legal compulsion, most captains rushed to the aid of sailors in need. That had to be why the other boat had changed course. The crew must have found it odd we had fired a distress flare, but kept our sails raised and continued away from them. What if they decided we were not in trouble? What if they changed course and left us alone? I had to lower our sails to slow us or risk the other crew abandoning their rescue effort.

The luff edge of the mainsail clipped to the halyard with shackles, which were enclosed along a metal track inside the aft portion of the mast. I could squint and see them in there, but I could not reach them. The yacht’s enormous sails were meant to be controlled from the helm, not by a novice swinging off the mast like a monkey.

I leaned away and examined the sail. My goal was to drop the sail, so I did not have to furl it like I would under normal circumstances. I only needed it to lose the wind. I unclipped the Swiss army knife from my tee shirt and ran my hand across the mainsail. It was constructed from heavy cloth, probably Dacron or some other man-made fiber, and covered with laminate.

I opened the largest blade and pressed it against the sail, but the knife would not penetrate it. I stood in the stirrups and grabbed the head of the sail. I pulled the luff edge as taut as I could. The fabric wiggled in my hand as the wind tugged it. I swiveled the knife in my hand, angled the blade down, and raised it over my head.

I stabbed the sail, and the knife punctured the fabric with a pop.

I changed my grip and yanked the knife downward, but it was not sharp enough to cut the cloth. I closed the blade and fingered through the other tools. I opened a small saw with jagged teeth, inserted it into the hole, and sawed until it chewed through the sail.

Sweat beaded on my skin, rolled off my forehead, and burned my eyes. I cut a three-foot incision. Wind blew through the opening, pulling the sail and making it easier to saw. I lowered my bosun's chair a few more feet and continued to slice away. The sail fluttered as wind poured through the opening between the sail and the mast. I kept going, and the sail flapped wildly, slapping and stinging my arms.

I lowered the chair and cut for thirty more feet. The sail flapped out of